


Tevinter

by fenkyuubi



Series: #SolavellanElvhenanOctober2020 [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Ancient History, Arlathan (Dragon Age), Dalish Elves, Dragon Age Spoilers, Dragon Age: Inquisition Spoilers, Elves, Emerald Graves (Dragon Age), F/M, Love, Multi, Pre-Dragon Age: Inquisition, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:08:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26837215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fenkyuubi/pseuds/fenkyuubi
Relationships: Andruil/Fen'Harel/Ghilan'nain (Dragon Age), Andruil/Solas (Dragon Age), Dalish/Lavellan, Dirthamen/Falon'Din (Dragon Age), Dirthamen/Solas, Elgar'nan/Mythal, Female Lavellan/Solas, Fen'Harel | Solas/Female Lavellan, Fen'Harel | Solas/Original Female Character(s), June/Sylaise, Mythal/Solas
Series: #SolavellanElvhenanOctober2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1957591
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10





	Tevinter

Dorian clears his throat and adjusts the cloak around his arms. A crisp breeze blows through the trees of the Emerald Graves, snapping against the exposed flesh of his hands and ankles. The mage cowers and pulls the folds of his makeshift blanket closer, neck sinking into the protective hollow of his shoulders for warmth. As he inches towards the fire, sliding his backside over sharp pebbles, twigs, and earthy mulch, Dorian decides that he hates the South, the Inquisition, and their leader's constant need to camp in Maker-forsaken holes far removed from civilization.

His eyes flit to his left in a furtive, careful glance. Solas clearly does not share in his discomfort, lounging against the remains of an old statue in thin, linen clothes. The elf fiddles with a branch no larger than a pen, twirling it absentmindedly as he peers into the night sky. Dorian cannot help but admire his high cheekbones, the tight line of his mouth, and the ethereal glow of the fire reflecting off his dome-like head.

"Don't."

Dorian doesn't see the subtle movement of his lips. He wonders if the command is issued telepathically until Solas tilts his head and fixes him with a cold glower.

"Don't what?" Dorian stiffens and returns his gaze to the flames.

"Start talking."

"I wasn't going to."

The conversation ebbs as quickly as it came. Dorian runs through his usual list of rude jokes, entertaining himself with private arguments and discussions until the voice in his head grows quiet, and the prospect of amusing himself for the next few hours becomes a doomed proposition. Eventually, he returns to observing Solas, taking in the small details of his clothes, the frayed threads of his tunic; the old holes patched with mismatched threads; the freckled white skin of wrists.

"You seem… quite comfortable. Are you not cold?"

The twig in Solas' hand snaps. He sighs and chucks the remnants into the fire. "How very observant of you. I am not."

"I take it you're used to Southern temperatures?"

"I suppose. Perhaps all those sessions dancing naked under the full moon paid off."

Dorian issues an _ah_ in understanding. "Still sore about that comment, are you? Considering how you claim to not be Dalish—"

"I'm not."

"—I'm surprised the comment stuck. So, where are you from then?"

Solas straightens against his stoney support. "If you're cold, why don't you retire to your tent?" he murmurs, clearly uninterested in continuing this line of questioning.

"We drew straws. We have the first few hours of watch."

"I can do that alone."

"Naturally, but I wouldn't want our fearless leader thinking I am a layabout."

"You are a layabout, Pavus, a fact the Inquisitor is well aware of."

"You seem quite confident in her inner workings," Dorian says mischievously, the curled edges of mustache rising with his smile.

The mask falls. Solas' lips slope into a frown, brows knitting together in a scowl. The trapping of a curse tumbles on his tongue. "Are you always like this?"

"Like what?"

"The type of person that fishes for personal information at any given moment?"

Dorian shrugs and rests his chin on the tips of his knees. "I'm just making conversation."

"Why?"

"Because we are stranded in an empty forest in the dead of night with nothing better to do, old chap. And…"

"And?"

"Well, you know, I feel like we got off on the wrong foot."

Solas scoffs—loudly. The sound of his disgust echoes around them, bouncing off the hidden walls of the elvhen ruin; this museum of rubble, stone, and faceless statues of a once-great civilization. Dorian clenches his arms around himself to suppress a shudder.

The elf does not answer him for a time, preferring to observe his feet in quiet concentration. His next words are soft, barely above a whisper. "It's not empty."

"Pardon?"

"The forest."

"As far as forests go, I suppose. I am not much of a connoisseur. There are plenty of trees and wet soil here. And old, forgotten places no one has names for."

"There are some of us who do remember."

"Is that why we're still here? A trip through memory lane? I assumed after the last ruin we pillaged, we would be done." Dorian gestures to the silver staff at Solas' side with a nod. "Got yourself a new toy to demolish demons with."

"There are far greater treasures here than material trinkets, Dorian," Solas says grimly. "Knowledge, for starters."

Dorian rolls his eyes. "And what's there to be learned from crumbling ruins?" He does not mean for Solas to hear him, but the elf does.

"I wouldn't expect you to understand. Invaders seldom have to worry about the lost history of those they conquer." Solas draws back in surprise, the venom of his words retreating into stunned silence. He looks away, hoping to disguise the flush that colors his cheeks.

Dorian smiles. "There it is—the root of all our problems."

"I don't know what you mean."

"You share the same prejudices of every other elf in his frigid hell hole. When it comes down to it, I'm just another evil Tevinter mage to you—the boogeyman of all your stories; why elves no longer have their shining city of Arlathan."

Solas exhales through his nose, the only acknowledgment he gives while he collects his thoughts. Dorian knows an argument brewing when he sees one. His father was the same.

"I do not blame Tevinter for the fall of Arlathan," Solas responds evenly, in a measured tone that smacks of someone who disagrees but cannot see the merit in a confrontation. He folds his arms across his chest, his perfect posture eroding into a tired slump. "It was only a matter of time before the empire fell."

"You're probably the only elf who thinks that."

"Perhaps, but then again, I am not most elves."

"Then why the animosity, Solas?" Dorian throws his arms up in dismay, destroying hours of carefully crafted warmth and comfort in an instant. "If not for the history of your people, then why?"

"Because we are fundamentally different, you and I. When you see me, you see kinship: a fascination with spirits, a shared proficiency for magic, a common enemy in the Old One."

"And you?"

Solas does not answer. The beginnings of his response are consumed by the bestial cry of an unseen enemy—the screech of a Red Templar from somewhere in the deep, dark recesses of the forest.

The Inquisitor lumbers from her tent just as the mages scramble to their feet. She tugs the knots from her hair and brushes the sleep from her eyes. "Be ready."


End file.
